


By Any Other Name

by flurblewig



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flurblewig/pseuds/flurblewig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Spike met his first love - his DeSoto...</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Any Other Name

As a human, he'd believed passionately in the idea of love at first sight - and so far, nothing in his existence as a vampire had served to change his mind.

He first saw her in 1995, on a quiet road in downtown Sacramento - she was already thirty-two then, but still in her prime; sleek and black and just about the most beautiful thing he'd seen in a long time. Love, desire, possession - to Spike, these things were synonymous. He wanted her, and that was enough. That made her his.

He chased after her, his boots echoing hollowly on the almost-empty street. He caught up with her as she began to turn the corner, and an extra burst of speed let him throw himself into the road ahead of her. He landed awkwardly and his ankle turned under him, spilling him to the ground. He let out a whooshing cough as the impact forced the stale air out of his lungs.

It hurt, but the pain was forgotten as soon as he realised that his impromptu plan had worked; it had stopped her.

Brakes, tires, engine, heat - noises and smells that filled the air around him. As he rolled he caught a glimpse of her driver's face; a girl, early twenties maybe, her face a round bright mask of horror. She jerked the wheel and the car followed, her nose turning away from him in the last few feet of road. She hit the street lamp at a slanting angle and lifted into the air with a balletic elegance, turning in a long pirouette that he watched from the ground, open-mouthed at her grace.

He was on his feet before she landed, racing to her side as she slid to a shattering halt on her dark roof. The driver hung upside down, suspended by her seatbelt, blood gushing from her mouth in dark freshets that glowed scarlet where the yellow light of the street lamps caught them. He smashed the window, leaned in and stroked her face tenderly, turning her head to face him.

"What's your name?" he asked her, as the life began to fade out of her eyes. She looked at him glassily, and her lips formed the word 'Susanna' but no sound came.

He took his hand back and didn't touch her again. She'd given him enough.

When the girl was dead he ripped the seat belt out of its housing and dragged her body out of the shattered window. Discarding it, he stood up and rolled the De Soto the right way up again. As she bounced back onto her tires, he glanced behind him. The occupant of the only other car on the street, a fat, middle-aged guy in dirty grey sweatpants, had stopped his own car and had been waddling over to the crash site. He watched Spike flip the car with an expression of wide-eyed wonder, his pace gradually slowing and slowing until he was actually going backwards. Back towards his car, back towards sanity.

Spike grinned, showing just a tease of fang, and the guy gave a strangled squeak. He almost wrenched his car door off its hinges, apparently remembering that he had an important engagement somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Spike surveyed his prize with a critical eye; she was battered now, bruised and hurting. But that was okay. After all, that was exactly how he liked his girls.

He slid into the drivers seat, inhaling the sweet smell of the blood that coated the interior surfaces

He turned the key in the ignition and the engine caught immediately, issuing a low growling purr. He smiled.

"My Susanna," he said, and drove her away.

***

Drusilla, against his expectations, loved her.

"It smells of death inside," she said, stretching out luxuriously on the back seat. "Mechanical death, all metallic and sharp and tasty." She scooted along, making room for him. Her dress rode up high on her thigh as she lay back, hands cupping her breasts.

He crawled along the seat towards her, ripping the dress down the middle from neck to waist. She growled and threw back her head, her white throat glowing in the muted light. Her hands continued their stroking, unfettered now by the flimsy silk. Her fingers rubbed and pinched at her nipples, and she hissed as her fingernails drew blood.

Spike lowered his head to her breast, his mouth finding skin and blood and pleasure as his body thrummed and sang along with the hypnotic pulse of the De Soto's engine. She wriggled beneath him, sliding her tongue lightly down his body.

"Susanna," he whispered, and Drusilla smiled and sank her fangs into the flesh of his groin. He screamed as his blood ran over her lips, and his hands convulsed into fists, tangling in her hair.

"Susanna," he said again, repeating her name until Drusilla's teeth and tongue brought him shaking and gasping into the white heat of oblivion. "Susanna."

 

***

In Bakersfield, the year turned and 1995 became 1996. And Susanna became Leigh.

He'd spent walletfuls of money belonging to wandering drunks and hitchikers, and the De Soto looked pristine again. Apart from the bloodstains on the leather - he'd kept those intact. It seemed churlish to clean away her christening gift.

After a year, though, the visceral thrill of that gift had faded - even for Dru. It was time to recharge.

Leigh had been maybe forty or so - plump and lush like a piece of ripe fruit. Spike had let the car draw the first blood, lifting the woman off her feet and twisting her in the air like a kitten playing with a mouse. She'd still been alive when they pulled her into the back seat, although her head injuries had meant she couldn't answer when Dru asked for her name. There'd been no ID in her pockets, but the necklace she was wearing spelled out 'Leigh' in chunky silver letters. Afterward, Spike cleaned it and hung it from the rear view mirror.

It stayed there until Santa Maria, and Nicola. Nicola was a tall, coltish teenager, all bones and angles. Dru fell in love for at least a week, and lay with her on the back seat, the girl's head lolling in her lap. They played her pop music on the radio for hours, and bled her by degrees. Dru had wanted to turn her so that she could stay forever, but she'd been nothing but a hollowed-out skeleton by then and Spike had managed to convince Dru that the girl would be too much of a liability. Dru wasn't strong herself, and he couldn't afford to split his attention. Dru needed it. Dru needed all of it.

He had to face the fact that she wasn't getting better. Had to do something.

He made enquiries, and got back rumours and tantalising snatches of information - a book, a ritual, a sacrifice. He heard about a place called Sunnydale, that came complete with a hellmouth and a Watcher - and Watchers certainly knew about old books and rituals.

Of course, the Watcher also came with a Slayer, but that was okay. In fact, that was a bonus; he'd been looking to complete the hat-trick for a while now.

So he pointed the De Soto towards the coast, and Sunnydale. And wondered whether she'd like being called Buffy.


End file.
